Lo, the trumpeters give a sound
of the rump this morning,
a wind to the leg where a carp
is put into good posture.
My art is talk—
and after talk, the bed.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 2 March 1659/60.
[poem removed by author]
Mindless
Thinking out of the box,
my mind left.
Little to do but school a school in being,
a man buried in being.
Brain or pot? Water or wine?
Other things make a kind bed.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 1 March 1659/60.
Anchorite
How at sea he is, that monk!
Join with him and dine on herring,
chant and turn out to row
in a brave cup.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 29 February 1659/60.
Old Harry
Red herrings to breakfast:
boot-heel hole as big as a horse
through the forest, one path
as if through a red regiment.
Old Harry went out to buy a hat
and met the Greyhound,
where I found him vexed
about breaking the Lord’s lock.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 28 February 1659/60.
Reading Revelation
Ablaze with prophecy, flames fed with oil or
petrol: pages devoted to fevered visions
of the end of days that I read with a flashlight,
covertly, after bedtime. How was I to tell
a beast from an angel, a beast from a man?
Lamps and temples, the sky’s invisible seal
yawning open; the terrible thunder of hooves.
Pity and penance too late— And sleep?
Sleep could be the shadow riding shotgun,
emissary of that fourth dark rider.
In response to Via Negativa: Four Horsemen.
Four Horsemen
Four horses in the cellar, four evangelists
in a hospital for poor people
and over the chimney a bird, an iron owl.
I drank to the Virgin
and kissed a plain bold maid.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 27 February 1659/60.
Night Song, In Transit
“…who caught and sang the sun in flight” ~ Dylan Thomas
Redundant rain, then mist, then fog—
and finally I want to pour out what I have left:
grief’s worn beads in my pockets, their weight, their
exaggerated rattle when I walk; their bloat, their
abacus of stain, regret, omission— Hear me say
goodbye, adios, dasvidaniya as the escalator
ascends into the dark nave of the station,
into the transit corridors that let out where
neon signs indifferently flash the name of this stop.
Suffering, said the old masters, painting the horse
tethered to the tree— Suffering is the itch
that stings more exquisitely than the mayfly’s sting,
high on the hind leg of the animal where he cannot reach.
Every time I hear someone use the word “journey,” I
don’t quite know, therefore, whether to laugh or cry—
You and I, so solitary, and yet so similar in our yearning:
it’s unseemly though, you must agree, when this word
names all struggles equal. I shift to one side,
gravity the motor beneath that pulls everything back,
origins married to the same gravitas
from which I want so dearly to lift,
to buoy, inhabit some tenable version of
harbor, hospice, heaven. Is this foolishness?
Evening falls. The air, cooled by rain,
lends columns on the avenue a soft,
intuitive aspect, as if they knew
grief’s coin, surrendered at the stile, eventually
hollows in the large, anonymous collection—
The ticket is returned; the traveler may pass.
In response to thus: small stone (220) and Via Negativa: Mr. P.'s Poetry.
Mr. P.’s poetry
I walk in fields broad and common,
journey one inch,
stand in church till dark.
Then wine, two bottles; a rose and no wit.
Let my pitiful verses get a laugh.
My folly has friends, I note.
I play the fool.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 26 February 1659/60.
In the Garden
Among the ginger lilies and hibiscus,
rough pebbles and patches of grass—
But some kinds of food we could grow:
chayote hanging from curly vines
wound through a makeshift trellis,
clumps of mint that we could tear
and scatter over strips of sizzled
meat; mottled loquat and avocado,
fronds of salad fern. And water—
rationed three times a week: miserly
trickle to try the patience,
going through the rusted pipes.
We filled rows of old juice bottles,
plastic pails; but when it rained,
we gathered at least two extra drums.
Living was clumsy like this, in more
ways than one— mornings and nights,
the cold coming through thin walls
and windows, staunched by musty
piles of woven blankets. The way we
held our breath for as long as we could,
just to watch thin ribbons of vapor
uncoiling like snails as they left
the warm house of our mouths.
In response to Via Negativa: Blankets and small stone (219).